out of his car. The rabbi had heart problems and was forced to moderate his activity accordingly. He was tall-an inch or so shorter than Koesler-but somewhat more husky. His thinning hair topped a round face. Wire-rimmed glasses framed eyes that enjoyed fun. All in all, the rabbi’s appearance was reminiscent of the late balladeer Burl Ives-a resemblance that on occasion startled onlookers who were certain that the folksinger had already departed this earth.
They greeted each other with enthusiasm. Once inside the restaurant, they sat on benches against a back wall and made small talk while waiting for a table.
Once at table, they ordered after glancing perfunctorily at the menu. Each asked for a salad-a specialty of this restaurant-and coffee.
Their conversations, more often than not, leaned toward an interdisciplinary ecumenism. Each respected the other’s religious affiliation. But on occasions such as this, they tried to keep it light.
“What’s this about having half funerals?” Koesler asked. “You never mentioned this before. You could have prepared me for my combination baptism circumcision.”
“As it turns out”-Feldman’s eyes danced-” I never even heard of one until you came up with this one. I thought I could cheer you up if I made you realize you weren’t the only leper in town.”
“You mean to tell me,” Koesler chided, “that you’ve lived a troublefree life as far as funerals are concerned?”
“Who has such luck? Let’s see.… I didn’t think you’d get specific,” he added, parenthetically. “I have to rattle through my memory bank. Ah … ah, yes. We have a custom called the unveiling, that happens about a year after death. It sort of dedicates the tombstone. During the ceremony, a veil-or, God save us, a piece of plastic-is taken off the stone. One time I finished the ceremony and a little boy whipped out a book and did the ceremony all over again. Imagine, a self-appointed expert!”
“At least he showed up with a book,” Koesler said. “Early on, I had a wedding, and as I walked up to the altar, I realized I’d left the ritual in the sacristy. By then, I’d done so many weddings, I probably could’ve done it from memory. But, in my heart I knew that once you try something like that, you set yourself up for botching the whole thing.
“So, I turned to this little altar boy and said, ‘Do you know that little black book I use for weddings and funerals?’ And he said, ‘Yes, Father,’ because little altar boys never learn to say, ‘No, Father.’
“So I told him to go back to the sacristy and get the book and bring it to me. And, do you know, I never saw that kid again!”
The waiter served their salad and coffee.
“I’ll bet,” Feldman said, “you never had a fistfight at the grave site!”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It was another unveiling ceremony. And when the stone was unveiled, it read, ‘Beloved Father and Husband’ instead of ‘Beloved Son and Brother.’ I don’t know why the fight broke out. It had to be over the marker. But pretty soon everybody but me was throwing punches.”
Koesler tasted the coffee. It was excellent-even better than he could make. “The closest I ever came to violence, that I can recall, was when I was a little altar boy. It was my first time at a military funeral. I had served at graveside before, but this military style was a first for me. Everything went smoothly until the end when, completely unexpectedly for me, the honor guard fired their rifles in salute. At the first salvo the widow fainted. And all I could think was, My God, they shot her!”
Feldman paused with a forkful of salad. “That’s it for me, I’m afraid-at least for real-life experiences. After this, we get into apocrypha.
“Like the one about the rabbi who is graveside. There’s a man at the next grave, screaming, ‘Why did you have to die? Why did you have to die?’ So the rabbi walks over to the man. ‘Was this your wife?’ he asks. And the man sobs, ‘No; it was my wife’s former husband.’”
Koesler laughed. “That’s one I hadn’t heard, oddly enough. But it sort of reminds me of the foursome holing out on the sixth green when a funeral procession passes by. One of the golfers stops just as he is about to putt. He waits, hat over heart, until the procession is completely out of sight. The second golfer says, ‘I have seldom seen such respect for the dead.’ ‘Yes,’ says the first golfer, ‘next Saturday we would’ve been married thirty-two years.’”
“Sticking with golf,” Feldman said, chuckling at the story he was going to tell, “here’s one where the rabbi wakes up on an absolutely perfect Saturday morning. The temperature is in the low seventies; there isn’t a cloud in the sky, just a slight breeze. A golf day made in heaven. Only one problem. It’s Shabbat-the Sabbath. Nothing like golf permitted on the Sabbath. But the temptation is too great. Quietly, the rabbi gets into his golf togs and slips out of the house.
“In heaven, an angel and Yahweh are watching all this. ‘Adonai,’ the angel says, ‘you can’t let him get away with this!’ ‘Wait,’ Yahweh says.
“The rabbi, all alone, steps up to the first tee, a short par four. He addresses the ball and hits it perfectly, the longest drive of his golfing career. The ball takes three bounces to the green, rolls up to the hole, and drops in. An ace-the first in his life!
“The angel turns to Yahweh and says, ‘You call that punishment?’ And Yahweh says, ‘Who can he tell?’”
“That’s pretty good,” Koesler noted. “Would the entire rabbinical school agree that that was punishment enough?”
“You know the old saying,” Feldman said, “the only thing you can get two Jews to agree upon is how much a third Jew should give to charity.”
Feldman was on a roll and Koesler was delighted; this light material was just what he needed.
Feldman put his salad aside for the moment. “Bob, you know what a mitzvah is?”
“A good deed?”
“Yeah. A meritorious, charitable act. Well, this Reb Yankel leads a righteous life. So he dies and goes before the pearly gates, or whatever. The angel who’s guarding the entrance to heaven says, ‘Reb, you have lived so good a life, you can choose to go to heaven or hell.
“Reb wants to know what’s the difference. The angel tells him in heaven he will be able to read the holy books. In hell there’s just wine, women, and song. Reb figures he’s read just about all the good books there are. So he chooses hell.
“But the angel, checking the record more carefully, sees that Reb hasn’t done even one evil thing. And you’ve got to have at least one black mark before you can get to hell. So the angel sends him back to do one rotten thing.
“As he’s walking through his town, the widow Moskovitz calls to him and invites him to tea. Reb stays the night with her, figuring that one fornication should make him eligible for hell. When they wake up in the morning, the widow turns to him and says, ‘Oh, Reb, such a mitzvah you did for me.’”
Koesler finished his salad and began looking for the waitress to hot up his coffee. “Reb Yankel and his attempt to even things out reminds me of a story I heard. About a mountain in Ireland. It’s a sacred mountain called Croagh Patrick. Long before they get to the pearly gates, Catholics try to even things out. Which, nine times out of ten, means we do penance for our sins.”
Feldman smiled. He enjoyed hearing about the quaint customs of what he liked to call “Our Daughter Church.”
“The Irish custom at Croagh Patrick is to climb the mountain on one’s knees.”
“You mean crawl up the mountain?”
“Well, it’s not Everest. But, still, it could get rid of a lot of punishment for sin. Anyway, this bunch of pilgrims was about halfway up the mountain when a middle-aged woman, as she was crawling, caught the heel of her shoe in the back hem of her skirt. She was hobbled. So she half turned to the man behind her and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but would you mind lifting my skirt?’ And he replied, ‘I will not. It’s for doin’ the likes of that that I’m doin’ the likes of this.’”
Feldman chuckled. He, too, had finished his salad. He attracted the waitress’s attention, a small miracle in itself, and motioned for more coffee.
The two men, as was their custom, would linger long over a series of coffee refills. They would leave a generous tip. Waiters and waitresses who recognized them did not mind the long visits. Not as long as the big tips kept coming.
